


Esprit de Corps

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:11:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt: Lestrade whumpage. Big time. Followed by a stunning display of protective rage from Sherlock and John, plus Donovan and Anderson acting like professionals even though they want to track down and murder the perp themselves, and working together with John and Sherlock. Establishment of some level of mutual respect, even if it's only for the duration of tracking down the bad guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Esprit de Corps

In some ways, Lestrade thought, it probably was Sherlock's fault.

 

In fact, in many ways it was Sherlock's fault.

 

It was definitely Sherlock's fault that he'd stopped worrying so much about locks on his doors and windows, as the man seemed to be able to break into is flat in five seconds flat whether the place was done up like Fort Knox or not. Lestrade had even left the door open once, knowing Sherlock was going to call around, and Sherlock had still got in through the bathroom window. 'Thought it looked too easy, could have been a trap,' he'd explained as he met Lestrade in the hallway, pulling his coat straight. Most people would've thought an open door was inviting, not 'easy'. Anyway, as such Lestrade had stopped bothering to close every window when he left the flat.

 

And the case – Sherlock was to blame for that, too. Not the fact the case existed, but Sherlock had a way of annoying the criminals to an insane degree. It usually worked, usually made them so angry they made a mistake, or an attempt on Sherlock's life – which was a pretty big mistake, as the man seemed to live within a force field. Albeit a force field which frequently consisted of the Metropolitan police force, an ex-Army doctor and what seemed like a very shady part of the British Government. Still, Sherlock hardly ever got a scratch on him.

 

Lestrade had learnt early on in his career that a serge uniform and a tin badge weren't very effective forms of armour, and even in these modern times his own stab vest usually languished under his desk or in the boot of his car. Taken out for raids, but far too impractical to wear everyday.

 

It was in the boot of the car now, Lestrade thought.

 

He supposed, in a vague and fuzzy way, that he should probably move. He didn't want to go through the pain, but it did seem unlikely that anyone was just going to stumble across him and do the hard work for him. He'd only left Sherlock an hour or so earlier, and no one else made regular uninvited forays into his living room. Besides, he only had around eight pints of blood, and at least one of those was now staining his carpet. He took a deep breath – a mistake, he quickly found as he shuddered with pain, resting his forehead on the carpet as agony gripped his chest. Right, no deep breathing. In fact, no big movements of any sort. Just a slow, inching crawl as far as the sofa. First goal. It wasn't far away, and then, maybe, he could stand up. Maybe.

 

His legs were probably in slightly better shape than the rest of him, so he pushed himself, trying to support his weight on his elbows. His right hand was a total mess, still bearing the livid imprint of a boot sole, his left wasn't much better – swollen knuckles and bleeding, but at least he could move some of his fingers. His chest was a mass of bruising, cracked ribs, if not broken. He didn't think his lungs had been damaged – his breathing was shallow, but not too rapid, and there were no sounds or urge to cough. Not an emergency, then. Unlike the two holes in his abdomen. He kept his body as curled up as he could – he remembered his first aid training, knew to try to keep pressure on the wounds, but they hadn't gone into what to do when you didn't have any spare hands. He just knew it was best to keep the wounds closed, and curling up seemed to do that well enough. His elbow landed on some of the wrecked remains of his BlackBerry. It had gone the same way as his right hand. The glass cutting into his elbow didn't even register on his list of pains.

 

Finally he reached the sofa. It was only about two feet high, but it may as well have been the North Face of the Eiger to Lestrade. He rested a few moments before reaching up to it, using his right arm first, then his left to struggle his torso upright. His ribs made their protest known and he sobbed out a litany of swear words. Then he managed to get his knees under himself and finally, using the armrest, to get to his feet. Still bent almost double he struggled to get his breath back by panting shallow little breaths, barely inflating his lungs. Blood dripped onto the sofa from his face, a steady patter that told him he was a long way from safety yet.

 

He'd heard them ripping the phone cables out so he didn't bother heading to the kitchen, instead groping his way along the wall to the front door, fumbling his left hand on the lock, struggling with his weak grip and the blood making the brass slippery. But finally the door creaked open. His lower leg was now also giving him cause for concern – an intense ache, but he couldn't remember what could have caused it, and he didn't have time to think about it. He had to get to the next door along, and he prayed the neighbours were in.

 

He leaned on the bell with the heel of his hand, not letting it go. He heard a noise inside and finally dropped his hand, leaning so heavily on the wall he knew he'd be on the floor again within a few minutes.

 

"What the…" was the greeting when the door was wrenched open. Then a beat, the moment when the woman obviously struggled to take in the sight he must present – ripped suit, shirt that was now almost entirely crimson, face covered in blood and more smears and streaks on her door and wall. She screamed. The sort of blood-curdling noise that Lestrade had heard too often.

 

"Phone," he managed to pant. "Need your phone."

 

And, miracles of miracles, she had it in her hand and held it out, shaking. He looked at her, trying to convey some calm, some control through his one working eye. "Dial nine nine nine, then hold it to my ear." He realised, as he spoke, that at least one of his teeth was loose.

 

She nodded, shaking, crying but trying to control herself. He fingers fumbled, then she held it out, not quite touching his head. It was answered quickly and he closed his eyes, rattling off his ID number and the situation, demanding an ambulance and his own team, as well as the patrol car. Then he nodded to the woman. "Hang up. Dial this number."

 

He wasn't entirely sure when he'd committed Sherlock's number to memory, but he knew that right now he needed the detective. The woman complied, holding the phone out again.

 

It rang too long, and just when Lestrade was starting to seriously worry that he hadn't been the only target that night Watson's voice was there.

 

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes' phone," he said.

 

"John, get to my flat, bring Sherlock. I need…just get here, as fast as you can – I mean it, emergency."

 

"I…yes, are you…you don't sound okay. Shall I call anyone else?" Watson offered.

 

"Done it, on their way, just hurry. And be careful."

 

"We're on the way," Watson confirmed.

 

Lestrade let himself roll his back against the wall and slide down onto the hallway carpet, eliciting a squeak of concern from his saviour.

 

"Get…towel or something, something…" he tried to organise his thoughts, force the words out, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle. All the while he'd been standing he had felt the warm wetness spreading through the cloth of his suit. He kept his knees raised and jammed his left forearm in-between his thighs and his stomach, trying to keep up some form of pressure. When the woman returned he stuffed the white fluffy towel there instead, head rested back, trying to keep his breathing even and his eyes open. He could feel the trickles of blood running down his cheek, and wondered how much he could lose before he lost consciousness. He just had to hang on until Sherlock got there – or Donovan, even. Someone who knew the case, who he could warn. None of them lived that far away.

 

He heard the wail of sirens out on the road and almost let a smile tug his lips. He looked up at the woman hovering over him, her face streaked with mascara. "Greg," he said, breathlessly. "Don't believe we've met."

 

She shook her head mutely.

 

"Could you go, let them in, bring them…"

 

She nodded, turning, but unable to drag her gaze from him, then finally ran for the stairs.

 

 

To Lestrade's surprise it was Watson's voice he heard first. He rolled his head, wondering why the corridor seemed so much darker than before. The two familiar figures were running toward him.

 

"Jesus, Lestrade," John fell to his knees on the carpet, obviously trying to assess every part of Lestrade at once. "Tell me what happened."

 

"They were…waiting for me," he said. "Said it was…a message. Back off. All of us, or it'd be…one of you, next. You two, Donovan…"

 

"Christ," Watson gently moved the towel, then replaced it, pressing on it, eliciting a groan from Lestrade. "The paramedics are just on their way up – bringing equipment. They won't be a minute."

 

Lestrade realised that Sherlock had been uncharacteristically quiet and looked up.

 

The detective was somehow managing to seem even paler than usual. He met Lestrade's gaze, with a look somewhere between pure rage and complete confusion. "Why?" he finally said. "Surely…it's utterly illogical. They want us to back off, so they attack you? It's…unfathomably stupid."

 

He was interrupted by the arrival of two paramedics, accompanied by Donovan and Anderson, who were each carrying bags of equipment whilst the medics wrestled the stretcher around the tight corners.

 

"Sir?" Donovan gasped, and then shot a look at Holmes. For a moment it seemed as if she were going to say something, but the look on Holmes' face silenced her.

 

"You've all…got to be careful," Lestrade winced as the paramedic pressed a large dressing against his head, applying long strips of tape to keep it in place. "I mean it, no fucking heroics – especially you, Sherlock."

 

For once there was no smart reply, no complaint, just a curt nod.

 

The paramedics began to gently move Lestrade onto the stretcher and Watson jumped to help, which galvanised everyone into action – Sherlock also reached out to assist, and Donovan turned to the woman who was still standing and staring, asking her if she'd seen or heard anything.

 

Lestrade groaned and hissed through his teeth as his shirt was cut away and more dressings applied to his stomach, Watson pressing hard onto one of them, the other paramedic on the other, whilst the first checked Lestrade's vital signs on the monitors and unravelled an oxygen mask to slip onto Lestrade's face.

 

"Alright, mate, you're going to be fine," he reassured. "We'll get you along the road once we've just got a bit of fluid into you, right?"

 

Lestrade nodded and felt the sharp sting as the line was put into his left arm. He looked at Watson, who gave him a reassuring smile. He could feel the cold and an odd tingling as the fluid from the drip began to work its way into his system. People were still talking, but he could concentrate enough to follow, so he just kept his gaze fixed on Watson, who was mainly silent, but occasionally speaking to the medics. Finally they started moving him, and he watched as the two medics, Anderson and Watson each took a corner of the stretcher when they reached the stairs and began the slow and slightly bumpy journey down to the street. He felt a hand on his upper arm and realised Donovan was walking with him. She gave a smile when she realised he was looking. "Don't worry, Sir, we'll get 'em. The Fr…I mean, Sherlock's up there, looking through your flat, and we'll get the team here. They won't get away with it."

 

"Be careful," he muttered, and most of the words were lost to the plastic of the oxygen mask, but she nodded.

 

As the ambulance began moving, sirens wailing, Lestrade realised Watson was still by his side, reading the data given by the machines, adjusting the fluid bag, ripping open new packets of sterile dressings. It made him feel better, knowing he was with a friend.

 

 

Sherlock looked at the blood patterns on the wall of the corridor, followed the trail back to Lestrade's front door and bent to examine the locks. He looked around when he sensed someone walking purposefully toward him. It was Anderson and Donovan, she had one of the cameras they used to record evidence, both were wearing the full blue suit and white shoe covers. She held out another set for him, and for a moment there was silence.

 

"We'd like your help," she finally said. "We'd like you to catch the bastard who did this to the DI, and we cannot let him get off on some technicality if you don't wear this."

 

Sherlock waited a beat, then took the suit, dumping his coat and pulling it on.

 

"Thank you," Donovan said, and Sherlock didn't think he'd ever heard such emotion in her voice.

 

Leaving the uniform officers to question the neighbours and keep people away from the bloodstains in the hallway the three of them stepped into the flat. The blood trails continued, ending in the deep red stain on the cream carpet near the window of the sitting room. They all stopped for a moment, each of them cataloguing the evidence in their minds. Then Donovan began shooting picture after picture of the scene, over views at first, then detailed images of the pattern of blood spatter, scuffs and marks on the floor, a portion of a bloody footprint.

 

Sherlock prowled around the room; examining broken objects, scratch marks on doors, fibres caught in woodwork, marks on the paintwork. He knew Lestrade's flat well enough to see what was out of place, which marks were new. And all the time he battled to keep his calm, keep his levelheaded analysis. He ran a constant commentary in his head, to keep the other thoughts out.

 

Anderson had already started to collect samples – hairs, blood, swabs rubbed over door handles and the telephone where it lay on the floor. He wrote meticulous notes and made Donovan photograph everything before he moved it, setting the rows of plastic pots back into his workbag. They didn't work silently, every now and again asking another member of the team to assist them, or look at something.

 

At some point Donovan put in a call to the DCI – a status report of all that they've found, and Sherlock takes a moment to dig out his own mobile phone. He pondered for a moment, then sends Watson a text.

 

 _'? SH.'_

 

He doesn't expect a reply immediately – the doctor is probably busy. But it's only a few minutes later that his phone rings. He moves to stand in Lestrade's bedroom – a room, as far as he can tell, in which there are no traces of the brutal fight.

 

"Yes."

 

"Sherlock – he's…he's okay, I mean, considering. They've taken him to the theatre now. Three stab wounds to the abdomen. He's got injuries to the small intestine, the liver, but the surgeons don't think they're too complicated. They'll know more when they've opened him up. Most other injuries were superficial. A lot of stitches and glue, his right hand needs setting and splinting. He's going to be in here for a while, but he's not critical."

 

Sherlock found himself nodding. He couldn't imagine exactly what would happen to him if Lestrade… he refused to think about. It wouldn't help. What would help is finding evidence to catch the bastards who'd hurt his…friend. Sherlock didn't use the word lightly – in fact, it could only be applied to two people in the world.

 

"I'll come…" he cleared his throat, hating that his voice had decided to give his emotions away. "I'll come over, when I've finished here."

 

 

They stayed another hour before finally handing over to the rest of the SOCO team, Donovan arranging for the flat to be locked up afterward. Sherlock headed directly to the hospital, knowing that Donovan and Anderson would follow when they had taken all their evidence back to the Yard.

 

 

He strode through the quiet corridors, heading for the ward that Watson had texted him the name of. Outside the small room a policeman looked him up and down, then stepped aside. "They're expecting you, Mr Holmes," the man said, opening the door.

 

The room was quiet, and Sherlock was grateful to find that Lestrade wasn't hooked up to any of the infernal beeping wheezing machines.

 

"Sherlock," Watson said, in a low voice, and stood up. His muscles were clearly stiff, telling Sherlock he'd been there for some time.

 

He allowed himself to look at the body in the bed. Lestrade looked greyer than usual. His head was bandaged and his chest was one huge bruise. The line connected to his left arm was obviously still topping up his body to account for the amount he had lost over the course of the evening, the lines wrapped around his head were delivering oxygen to his abused lungs and the clip on his finger monitored the levels in his blood. The tops of dressings on his abdomen were just visible above the blanket which was covering him. He looked as peaceful as anyone could, in the circumstances.

 

"He's comfortable," Watson said.

 

Sherlock snorted his obvious disbelief.

 

"Well, they've given him painkillers. He's doing well. The liver damage wasn't too serious, and he'd done all the right things to take care of himself. He's going to be in for a few days. I've told them he has to have someone on the door of the room all the time – and preferably one of us in here. If this really was…well, no one's going to stop the investigation, are they?"

 

 

The next morning Donovan and Anderson both arrived at the hospital. Sherlock didn't even mention the fact they had spent the night together. He didn't blame them. Lestrade was awake, although he looked as if he'd been fed through a combine harvester, and Sherlock had been questioning him – and doing his very best to keep calm and give him time. The occasional glare from Watson had told him when he was pushing too hard.

 

The attack had been so violent that Lestrade hadn't had much time to think about anything. He'd arrived home as usual, closed his front door, taken off his coat, and as he'd walked into the sitting room he'd been attacked from behind. He wasn't entirely sure about the weapons they'd used – something equivalent to police batons though. Once he'd been incapacitated enough he'd been held by one of the men and the other had delivered the message – East London accent, height about six feet, heavily built, wearing a ski mask, but Lestrade had got the impression he was bald underneath it. Both men had been wearing dark jeans and jumpers. Then he'd been punched in the stomach – or so he had thought – and once on the floor the kicking had continued until the men had left, suddenly. Lestrade couldn't be sure, but he thought one of them might have received a telephone call. As a parting gesture the two men had gone through his pockets and found his BlackBerry and stamped on it. They had tried to find his warrant card, but failed, which had apparently made them pretty angry, and resulted in him getting an extra kick to the face (Sherlock had the grace to look embarrassed, remembering that he'd remove it from Lestrade's pocket the previous afternoon). Lestrade had thought they probably needed it to prove that they'd done the job. Then, after ripping out the phone line, they had left. And he'd discovered the punches to the stomach had been a bit more serious than he'd thought.

 

After he'd finished talking Donovan slipped her hand onto his arm. "We will catch them, Sir. We've got all the forensics, F…Mr Holmes has been…well, we've been helping him. And we think there are some leads. We're going out now, to follow up on them.

 

Lestrade nodded. He wanted more than anything to be on the streets with them, showing that it took more than a kicking to put the Met off. But just eating his breakfast that morning had been so tiring that he'd been forced to agree with Watson that he really did have to stay in bed.

 

 

Watson had continued to sit with him, despite Lestrade's protests that he should be out helping Sherlock. Watson stubbornly refused, insisting that he should stay. Lestrade told him to call someone else from the station. "You know that Sherlock doesn't work as well without you – Christ, at the moment he's working with Donovan and Anderson, please John, go and help him."

 

Then a text had come through.

 

 _'John, Come to St. Barts. Make sure someone else is with GL. SH.'_

 

It was the final thing needed to convince Watson. He waited for another PC to arrive to sit with Lestrade and then took off, catching a cab across town.

 

The sight that greeted him was slightly shocking. Anderson was leaning over a microscope, looking through various slides, making notes and entering data on a laptop. Donovan was searching through files, making notes and collating information, whilst Sherlock had stuck photographs all over one wall and was studying them closely. Watson was almost afraid to walk in and somehow burst the bubble.

 

"John, come here. Look at these four. Anderson's going through the forensics now. I think we have a match, see the indentations there, and the print there…" Watson was drawn into a whirl of Sherlock pointing out tiny marks, traces of blood here and there, footprints, similarities in scratch marks around locks and a myriad of other things, from crime scenes.

 

He wasn't exactly sure how Sherlock had got there – you could follow up to a point, and then Sherlock's mind would do some sort of mental gymnastics that no one could quite follow, but the result was he and Sherlock, in a cab, following four police cars down to Elephant and Castle, creeping through the backstreets of one of the estates, sirens off, nothing to alert anyone that the jaws of the trap were closing.

 

Donovan was calm and in control as she pointed the teams of two and three officers off to cover various entrances before leading the rest of the team, including Sherlock and Watson, up the stairs of the block.

 

The door of the flat gave easily and in the ensuing chaos Watson was pretty certain that everyone who felt the urge had managed to inflict some damage on the man who was attempting to flee. He certainly enjoyed the feel of his foot sinking softly into the man's groin. Then the uniformed officers were sent outside by Donovan, who glanced across to Sherlock before advancing on the man, who was now sitting on a hard chair, handcuffed and looking a lot less tough. "Who was with you?" she asked, her voice cold and hard.

 

"Don't know wha…" the slap was like a gunshot in the room as her open palm made contact with his face.

 

"He's my fucking DI, and believe me, if you don't tell me who was with you you'll be leaving this place in a fucking body bag you scum!" she shouted.

 

The man visibly recoiled. He looked to Sherlock and John. "She can't do…"

 

"She has," Sherlock cut in. "Best you tell her."

 

"I don…"

 

Sherlock gestured to Watson, who pulled a small box out of his pocket and took a syringe from it. He tapped it, holding it up to the light.

 

"What…what?" the man tried to move but the viscous scrape-snap of Donovan flicking her baton out made him stop, staring from her, baton raised, ready to strike, to Sherlock, relaxing as he leant back against the worktop and studying the floor, to Watson, who held the syringe.

 

"Drugs overdose, common cause of death around here, isn't it?" he enquired, to no one in particular.

 

Donovan nodded. "And he's got form for it. No one would be surprised."

 

"Tragic waste of life," Sherlock said softly, then let his gaze slide over the man. "Perhaps not so tragic in your case."

 

Sherlock was surprised that the man held out until Watson was only inches from his skin – then the names came tumbling out.

 

Donovan immediately radioed the rest of the squad, arranging raids and pick-ups.

 

 

By the time they arrived back at the hospital that evening Lestrade had been taken off the drip and actually looked a half decent colour. He smiled as they recounted the tale – noticing that Anderson chipped in to praise Sherlock, whilst Sherlock was complimentary about the work of the two officers. He finally looked at them all, nodding. "Dare I hope this is the start of a new chapter in our working relationship?" he asked, searching the faces of each of them in turn.

 

"Well, I wouldn't…" Sherlock began.

 

"By rights, I should have arrested the Fr…him for even having the heroin," Donovan broke in.

 

"And the police brutality," John mentioned.

 

"Police? What about the doctor willing to…" Anderson broke off, realising it probably wasn't wise to say it out loud.

 

They all looked at each other.

 

Lestrade laughed. "Thank God. Don't get me wrong; I'm glad you worked it out, as a team. But you lot all being nice to each other? Thought I'd slipped into a coma and was dreaming. It's not normal."

~Fin 


End file.
